Dawnbringer: An Epic Medieval High Fantasy Saga

The clatter of wood against wood echoes through the training ground as Rorlain parries the strike of the captain of the guard. He then lunges forward and seeks to land a blow on his trainer, but the latter deftly steps to the side and blocks the wooden training axe with his shield and then, in one swift flourish, counters with his sword full against Rorlain's back. The blow is relatively light though hard enough to sting, and Rorlain admits defeat. Were the battle in earnest, the strike would have been deadly or at least debilitating.

"You are getting better," the captain says. "Lighter on your feet now, though your attacks are still too slow and predictable."

"Only so much improvement can be expected in so little a time. I am a huntsman, not a warrior, Hersir," he replies.

"But you are one of the few men in Ristfand who have had real combat experience," Hersir says, "at least in war itself. My men have spent their lives as guards and custodians of justice, not on the field of battle where death is all around and the enemy approaches only to take your life."

"Sometimes he approaches more to save his own," comments Rorlain. "I know that a part of me does, anyway."

"Aye, and that is a difficult thing to master," says the captain. "To flinch when a sharp blade of metal is flying toward you is only natural and easy. But to stand strong, unmoved, and to keep your wits about you enough to block, parry, and counter the strike: that takes practice, experience, and discipline. You are doing quite well in all of them."

"But I still flinch a bit?"

"Only slightly. The greater point of growth for you is to outmaneuver your opponent. In order to do this, brute force is not enough, nor even speed alone. You must learn how to get past your foe's defenses, be they weapon, shield, or armor, and thus become adept both at discerning their weaknesses and breaching them."

"How exactly do I accomplish such a thing?" asks Rorlain. "I am not going to dance around my opponent like a madman or a jester."

"It is not a matter, as I said, of speed, but of acumen, though a modicum both of speed and strength are required," Hersir replies. "And in combat stamina is of great importance. If you move too much, you shall tire and be overwhelmed. Stand like a rock unmoving and yet be prepared at a moment's notice to become as sinuous as water and as fast as a bolt of lightning."

"Like a hunting animal preparing to spring?" Rorlain offers.

"Precisely. This combination is the key to your success," the captain explains. "You see this even in the peskiest of insects, do you not? Whether a simple fly or a gnat, they land and remain unmoving, as if taunting us, and when we try to strike them, they are suddenly off, beyond our reach. And before we know it, they have stung us and disappeared again."

"An unpleasant experience," Rorlain grants.

"Indeed. But likewise you must be. You cannot fly, and you are of greater size, yet such an approach shall work well for you, and it fits with the build of your body and the manner of your combat. It only needs to develop and be less of a tendency and more of a honed choice."

"As you say. I shall work on it."

With this they retire, Rorlain wiping sweat from his forehead and returning his practice axe to the rack beside Hersir's sword. The afternoon sun is warm, and the air is still and quiet, with hardly a whisper of breeze. The weeks pass in Ristfand with no news of the incoming forces and with little to speak of within the city itself. The days, however, are occupied by many in combat training, since not only is the city guard preparing to fight, but a militia has been formed which is composed of almost all the men over the age of eighteen within Ristfand and its surrounds. Rorlain himself trains much, but he has also taken to spending a great deal of his time assisting in the making of weapons and armor. He does not have the skills of a smith, but neither does the city have the resources for the mass production of metal armament. He helps rather in various other tasks of craftsmanship, shaping hewn wood into spears, often affixing a tip of sharpened iron or copper to the end, or boiling, drying, and sewing leather for armors—mainly jerkins or vests to protect the vital organs of the torso, from neck to hip—or sanding wooden shields and fastening to them both handle and hide.

He has also ridden out with a hunting party multiple times to the surrounding woods to catch what they may both for the production of leather and furs and for stocking provisions against the coming siege and the likely scarcity of supplies born of this. But most of his time is spent in the city, working and training from early morning to late afternoon. Because of this, he has seen little of those at the temple. Eldarien remains on his mind and in his heart, but he does not know what more to say to him. He knows not how to share with him the growing sense of fear and suspicion he feels regarding the leadership of the city, the hæras in particular.

But what if Eldarien is right, at least in part? What if Rorlain's suspicions are unfounded or at least misguided? Even if the hæras is not to be trusted, this does not imply that any of Rorlain's thoughts or interpretations are correct. And thus, to act upon them could bring great harm to many persons. Is not Eldarien correct, therefore, that the best thing to do, perhaps the only thing to do, is to devote themselves to preparing for the coming battle? The true nature of the hæras and his intentions shall be made known with the coming of full-fledged war to his own walls. Then the man shall be known for his deeds. Thinking of the approach of enemy troops to the walls of Ristfand, Rorlain is reminded of a conversation he had with the captain of the guard a couple days earlier, a conversation concerning the battlements of the city and the guard to be stationed upon them.

"Hersir!" Rorlain cries, stopping the captain as he walks away.

"What is it, Rorlain?"

"You said that you wished to show me the battlements of the city and to discuss the plan of defense. Is now an appropriate time for such a thing?"

"Aye," Hersir replies. "I was heading to the northern wall of the city soon regardless. I can show you the main gate and discuss with you its design, as well as the proper placement of men upon it."

"But why do you wish to speak of that with me, captain?" asks Rorlain.

"You will see soon enough."

On the north wall of the city, near the center-point where west and east meet, lies the great gate of Ristfand. There are also three smaller gates, one each on the other sides of the city, west or east into the plains, and south to the slope descending to the sea. And in all directions too, settlements spread, homesteads and farms dotting the landscape, though to the south, the heavy stone structures of the city spread even outside the walls nearly to the ocean. Here the trade of fishing flourishes, and the docks are full of fishing boats large and small. Being of such considerable size, a good two miles across in every direction, Ristfand may well prove difficult to siege, as even a large army would be forced to attack only one or other part of the wall while leaving the rest unattended. And since in her rear Ristfand looks out upon the sea, in the worst scenario, the many boats could be used to evacuate the majority of the citizens from the city, to protect them upon the water, and to carry them to a safer location.

The north gate, being the largest of the four gates, is the most likely location of the main assault. It stands twenty feet across and twenty-five high, closed by a wooden drawbridge reinforced with metal, and an iron portcullis that can be lowered and raised from a chain pulley upon the battlements. These battlements, on the thirty foot wall, provide a walkway wide enough for three men to walk abreast, all the while protected by a parapet chest high on the side facing away from the city, with merlons two head-heights taller. Sentries continually man all the gates and indeed are stationed at regular intervals along the wall for the entire perimeter of the city. But nowhere is a better location for an army to seek entry than the north, and here they plan to focus their defense, though ready to move at the slightest notice, for they will know not, until the enemy comes, where precisely shall be the focus of their attack.

Rorlain and Hersir arrive at the gate and stand just inside it, in a wide courtyard of stone, a kind of antechamber to the city itself designed to be a last bastion of defense to prevent, or at least to slow, an army in the event that they breach the outer gate. Stone steps lead up onto the battlements on either side of the gate, and Hersir gestures for them to ascend. When they have come to the top of the wall, they look out over the wooded plains to the north, rich in the vibrant colors of spring. These woods are interspersed with the same farms and buildings that dot the landscape all around Ristfand, with rough gravel or dirt paths connecting many of them both to each other and to the main Mardas road that runs more or less straight down from the north to the gate itself.

"I would like you to have command of a troop of archers stationed on this wall," Hersir says.

"Why me?" Rorlain asks, turning to look at the captain. "Never before have I had the charge of men."

"That is true, but you are one of the few who have tasted real battle, and against the forces of the Empire at that."

"I fear what I experienced shall be nothing like what awaits us when the army arrives at our gates," Rorlain retorts. "I do not trust myself to keep a level head when that happens."

"But I do," says Hersir. "And the men shall need a firm hand, that their arrows may not be wasted, and, the gods forbid, that they may fight well with the blade in the event our wall is breached."

"If you insist, then I shall try."

"It is but fifty men. For that many, I believe, you are equipped."

Rorlain turns his gaze out over the lands to the north and exhales deeply in both exhaustion and anxiety. A pang of fear spreads through his heart, and for a moment he glimpses more of Eldarien's pain than he has known until this moment: the pain of being responsible for the deaths of others. He hopes to be spared this himself, but in this moment he recognizes the real possibility, even the probability, of such a thing happening. "I will do what I can," he says to Hersir, keeping his gaze to the north and watching the many trees sway gently in the wind.

And, as if sensing Rorlain's thoughts, the captain replies, "Only remember that you have no direct power over their lives. Whatever happens, it may be well beyond your control. Just give commands, and, insofar as within your power, instill courage. The rest lies within the heart of each man and in the hands of fate."

Suddenly a figure appears from the midst of the trees: a figure on horseback riding hard, at full gallop, along the road. Rorlain and Hersir descend the stairs and step out through the gate to greet the rider when he approaches.

"Hail, friend," Hersir cries, raising his hand in the air as the rider draws near. He wears the garb of a soldier of Ristfand, and his horse glistens with sweat in the light of the sun.

"Hail, captain," the man says, reining in his horse and coming to a halt before them. He dismounts and stands, visibly exhausted and yet his eyes burning with an interior fire, as if collecting his wits before speaking. "I bring word of my scouting expedition."

"Your name is Austyn Lardas, correct? What news do you bring?" Hersir asks.

"I bring grave news indeed," says the rider. "Not five days past, I encountered a troop of soldiers marching southeast along the plains, as if they had come through Teldyn pass with their sights set upon Ristfand."

"That is likely their exact path," Rorlain says. "How many men did you estimate?"

"It is a large host, though numbers I cannot accurately guess," replies Austyn, and then hesitantly he proffers a guess, "I suppose five-thousand."

"That is more than twice the number of trained fighters that we possess, though we have gladly been able to prepare for battle many more," says Hersir. "But an untrained man with a sword in his hand is not necessarily worth counting when set against an army of trained soldiers."

"There may yet be great worth and courage in the men of our city, captain, though untested," Austyn says, with a bow of his head.

"You speak truly," replies the captain, "though we can only pray that the test does not break them."

"Was the company that you saw composed of men alone?" Rorlain asks.

"Men alone?" Austyn asks in response. "I saw none but men. Men armed for war. And if they march behind me, they could be only two or three days away now. I rode hard and fast, but there is only so much I could have gained on them in so short a space."

"Then we shall prepare with haste for their arrival," Hersir says. "Thank you for bringing word with such care. Many lives may indeed depend upon your speed."

"What more would you have me do?" asks Austyn.

"Go directly to the hæras and bring him the same word that you shared with us. And then you may rest and recuperate from your travels."

With this Austyn bids them farewell and leads his horse into the city. Rorlain and Hersir remain standing for a moment, looking to the north, as if an army would crest the horizon at any moment. At last, Hersir breaks them out of their reverie, saying, "Let us bring word to the men before night falls. The coming days shall be full of expectation and preparation."

† † †

If blood boils in the veins with intense anger, it freezes with fearful expectation. But it is not blood at all, at least not bodily blood, that causes the feeling that one is almost paralyzed with uncertainty. It is rather what blood represents: the feelings of the heart throbbing out to pervade one's whole being and to take in, too, what in the very extremities of experience seeks to reverberate also in the inner self. Rorlain feels the waves of fear viscerally as he walks back to the temple of Niraniel that evening after bringing word to the men. It was an exhausting work in itself, repeating the same message again and again and seeing the fear in the eyes of those receiving it. In the eyes of many, yes, there was resolve, even profound courage. But the fear is always there as well. After all, Ristfand is not a city designed to withstand prolonged assault. It is protected by watchtowers that will warn of any incoming force, and walls surround the city itself, tall and sturdy walls of stone. All of this Rorlain has seen for himself. But Ristfand has little more than these things, no heavy weaponry, no wide moat, no clear view of the surrounding area (which is heavily wooded and provides ample cover for any attacking force), and no strategic position, not even a crevice in the mountainside to limit the enemy's attack to only one section of the wall.

The coming battle is to be different than the assaults on Imperial caravans or patrols in which Rorlain had previously participated. Here it is not a matter of a surprise attack on an unsuspecting troop of a dozen or two dozen men, from which one can retreat again into the secrecy of the woods. No, now it is a matter of building up defenses and standing strong while a superior force seeks to conquer, to take or destroy what one seeks to protect, and even one's very life. Yet regardless of what stands before him and the fear that it incites, Rorlain has known fear, has tasted darkness and the proximity of death—he thinks of his prior encounters with the creatures of darkness—and yet has come back into the fullness of life once again. Deep inside his heart he hopes that he shall see light again after the coming darkness, but there is no certainty of such a thing, and he must come to terms with the great unknown and with the real possibility of death for himself and for thousands more. As he comes to the courtyard and begins to ascend the steps of the temple, Rorlain resolves to fight not to safeguard his own life, but rather, when faced with the terror that awaits, to seek to assuage the fear of others and to save their lives in whatever way he may. And paradoxically it is this acceptance of death that allows in his heart a surge of courage.

As he comes to the main corridor, he sees Tilliana walking, with her back to him, toward the great doors leading into the sanctuary. He opens his mouth to call out to her, but she pulls one of the doors open and passes through it before he finds the appropriate words to say. After a moment's thought, he decides to enter behind her, and when he does so, he finds her sitting about halfway along the length of the nave of the sanctuary, her head bowed. He eases himself into a bench a few seats behind her, and he waits. A good half hour or so passes, and he is nodding off to sleep where he sits—through the intermingling of fear and exhaustion—before she stirs.

"Tilliana," he says softly as she rises to her feet and begins to leave the sanctuary.

"Rorlain?" she asks, looking at him in surprise. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to inform you that one of the scouts that was sent out has returned," he replies, "and they report a force marching toward the city naught but a few days out."

After an expression of pain washes across her face, she says, "Then it begins soon." She turns away, as if needing space for thought or, unable to speak more, intending to leave the sanctuary, but then she turns back, and adds, "I heard you come in just after me. Did you wait for all this time just to inform me?"

"Well," Rorlain says sheepishly, "I actually lost track of time. Exhaustion seems to have overtaken me."

"There is no better place to rest than where one's limitations and weaknesses are held by someone greater," Tilliana says simply. "Maybe it is fitting that you felt that here and not elsewhere."

Rorlain looks at her for a long moment, in wonder and amazement that her words cut so deep into his heart. For he has indeed been restless and overworked for weeks now—filled with fear, expectation, and suspicion—and has been carrying all the burdens of his thoughts and desires alone and feeling crushed by the weight.

"I wish that is indeed what I experienced," says Rorlain, "but I fear it was just exhaustion, plain and simple."

"Many things we feel without noticing it," Tilliana answers with a gentle smile, "and much happens within us without our being aware of it."

"Perhaps so." With this Rorlain rises to his feet and continues, "May I walk you back to your room? Then I shall seek Cirien and bring him the news. All in the temple shall know soon enough what awaits us in the coming days."